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by Birdbitch



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Cannibalism Play, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eros is not what he seems to be and Dionysus is not entirely sure whether the need he has stems more from hunger or lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mix Stitch (Synph)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synph/gifts).



> Dionysian-typical references to cannibalism. Nobody actually gets eaten, but there’s a blurry line with what it is Dionysus really wants, because that’s just. Dionysus’s thing.

Eros is older than any of them. He doesn’t look it—doesn’t want to look it—and instead retains the appearance of a young man with a high brow and a nose that curves just barely upwards and lips that might resemble his bow but are, more often than not, drawn tight with teeth digging into the flesh. His hair curls in ringlets, and his wings tuck themselves tight against his back.

Dionysus thinks that he has a terrible desire to consume the older god. They run into each other frequently, facilitating each others’ functions (does desire and love have anything to do with pleasure? Dionysus argues ‘yes’), and each time, Dionysus is left wondering what it is he could do differently so as not to end up alone. (Not—alone, that is, but without Eros, and as fun as fucking mortals is, it is not the same, not when the fire burns harshly within his chest and demands he take take take.) Eros must know—he has a feel for these things—but so far has said nothing, and nothing has prompted Dionysus to bring it up.

Except—and this is where things are beginning to get muddled, as they do in his festivals—Dionysus wants and needs and it will express itself in one way. He has a terrible cannibalistic streak, he fears, inherited from his grandfather. His beard itches and he tugs at it to try to keep his fingers otherwise occupied. Better say something before the maddening lust consumes him. Better say something before he rips Eros’s wings apart without even knowing himself. So he waits, as long as possible, until they meet again at a party.

“We should talk,” he says, and Eros nods his head, lips parted and eyes round and wide.

“You’ve wanted to talk for a while. Why now?” They’re making their way away from the party, towards a secluded courtyard, and Dionysus regrets making a decision to do anything at all. Eros smells good enough to eat. What a rotten, rotten thought, but it crosses Dionysus’s mind anyways, and he tries to push it away (though he has always had an issue ignoring his gut).

“I will explode,” Dionysus says, and Eros regards him with a raised eyebrow. “I will. You should not like to be around for the result.”

“I would not,” Eros says, and he licks his lips. His eyes are dark. “Dionysus,” he says, and he leans in close, presses his body against Dionysus’s, has to tilt his head up to see his face, “I can destroy you now, if I wanted to.”

“You already have,” Dionysus answers, and it’s true because his heart feels as though it is being torn apart by tiny hands and he is hard and he wants and he wants more than he ever has in his life and there is a stabbing pain in his shoulder that makes him wonder if maybe Eros had planned for this all along, had been the one to strike first with his golden arrows, and he wonders if maybe the warmth in his back is blood. He is destroyed. All he can think is how much he wants to possess. It is desperation and he does not like it.

Eros presses even closer, as if trying to sink physically under Dionysus’s skin, and Dionysus cries out. “Have I?” Eros asks, and no, he hasn’t, and doesn’t the fact that he could make things even worse change anything? No—no, it doesn’t. Dionysus wants to beg, but he cannot find the language. They speak different tongues at times, and he is not sure what would properly express what he needs in the words of the cosmos. He doesn’t bother trying, instead kissing Eros and hoping—hoping, hoping, hoping—that he does not get pushed away.

(He doesn’t, of course, because part of this had been Eros’s want all along, and if he hadn’t wanted Dionysus, the other god wouldn’t have been able to get close to him. But Dionysus doesn’t know that, won’t know that.)

Eros kisses back, demanding, requiring more than Dionysus knew he had to give, and he claims all of it in the same way Dionysus’s fingers scratching the skin between Eros’s wings mark a claim on him. “This is not my real body,” Eros says, and he cries out. “I am not nearly this beautiful.”

“I do not care. I am a goat.” Dionysus bites Eros’s neck and sucks on the space, and if this were to happen again years later down the line, men would call him a vampire. He is harsh with his kisses and his hands would leave bruises on anyone else. He needs. He needs he needs he needs and the repetition of the thought fills him until Eros’s fingers come to the side of his face and he has a momentary respite. The clarity fills him like an ocean and he sees Eros—sees him, and he was telling the truth. It was not his real body, but a faint mimicry of what Eros actually is, and Dionysus feels tears start to flow at the sight. If he were human, if he were mortal, he’d be gone. (There is a reason, then, that Psyche was not permitted to look upon Eros’s face.) Even as he is, Dionysus feels stunned and takes a moment to regain any kind of thought.

When he comes back to himself, he is on his back, and Eros straddles him, waiting. His hands are soft and Dionysus tilts his head to bite at fingers lingering on his face. “I told you that this is not my real body. I am a monster. I will destroy you. I’ll understand if you want to leave.” And Eros is sad. He is miserable and terrified and he is the most splendid creature Dionysus has ever seen, and Dionysus knows that he does not like the way Eros cries.

“I am here. Allow me to devour you.”

The real monster here, Dionysus feels, is himself.


End file.
